


Little Sherlock

by 221bBakerStreet221b



Series: Little Brothers Mine [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Diapers, Implied/Referenced Self Harm (first and second chapters only), M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Omorashi, Thumb-sucking, Wetting, pull-ups
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10552870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bBakerStreet221b/pseuds/221bBakerStreet221b
Summary: When Sherlock arrives back to Baker Street distressed and asking for Mycroft, John is surprised to learn that the man has been participating in age play with his older brother for quite some time.  As John settles into life with his detective boyfriend/roommate periodically slipping into little space, he begins seeing himself fitting into the world Mycroft has so carefully protected for his little brother.





	1. Calling Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> First post on AO3--please heed the tags and let me know what you'd like to see in the comments below. I'll update when I can, and look out for little John in the upcoming chapters!
> 
> Also, mentions of self-harm are used in the first and second chapters but will not be prominent to the plot point moving forward beyond providing background for Sherlock's emotional state/relationship to age play. If self-harm is triggering for you, check back in once we're settled into a comfortable and open age play relationship around the third chapter, which promises some general angst but mainly lots of comfort and fluff.

Sherlock stumbled up the front steps, swiping rainwater from his forehead and out of his eyes. He burst through the front door of 221 Baker Street and climbed the stairs to Apartment B, slamming the door back against the wall when he threw it open.

"Sherlock?" It was John, glancing up from where he sat in the living room with a newspaper spread in front of him. The local news was on John’s laptop, volume playing softly, and a broadcaster was speaking of Sherlock's most recently solved case, which was just beginning to develop within the media. "Where the hell have you been?"

Sherlock understood why John would be angry; he had been out of touch for three days, away from the flat battling his need for drugs now that their case had finished and left him nothing more than a hollow sense of purposelessness. John had seen the pattern before: the drugs were a welcome relief, but their hold upon Sherlock was fleeting at best, and the more Sherlock took, the more helpless and depressed he felt upon coming out of the haze. But that didn't make Sherlock's actions any easier on his boyfriend, he knew. Later, John would ask what had brought Sherlock back to the flat that night, and Sherlock would explain that he had snapped out of a high quicker than he ever had before, knowing that what he actually needed was far simpler than grimy needles and drug dens in abandoned city buildings.

"Call Mycroft," Sherlock breathed.

"Sherlock?" John stood from the arm chair and crossed towards the dark haired man. "Are you hurt?"

Sherlock moaned and bent nearly in half, legs pressed together tightly and hands clenched at his sides. 

"I'm sorry, John," he said. "But I need Mycroft. I'm...there's something wrong. Call Mycroft."

John Watson didn't understand. He left behind his newspaper and crossed the room towards his best friend and boyfriend, the anger he had felt over Sherlock not contacting him for the past three days dissipating at the thought of Sherlock injured in some way.

"I can help," he said. "We'll talk later about where you were. Just tell me what's wrong, Sherlock."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and twisted one leg around the other.

"You won't understand, John," Sherlock said, face dark, pained. "Just call Mycroft. I won't last much longer. I feel so...I need Mycroft."

It was rare that John heard such honest--albeit convoluted--expressions of emotion from the man, and it concerned him. Sherlock looked to be in pain, and John could tell from the drawn look on his face that he more than likely had not been sleeping or eating wherever it was he had been. He did not need to have Sherlock's powers of deduction to know the man had more than likely been in a drug den. But this sudden need for Mycroft was something unexpected; the Holmes brothers were not even getting along presently, and John had to admit he felt put out when Sherlock requested his brother instead of letting John help in whatever way he could.

"John," Sherlock said, almost begging. "I'll explain later. Please."

John paused. Since when did the man use the word 'please'?

Sherlock groaned, and John stood gaping as he once more bent over, as if injured. But this time one of Sherlock's hands found its way into his crotch, and he pressed down, like a child caught short waiting for the loo.

"Sherlock?"

"Call Mycroft!"

And now Sherlock was close to tears, eyes shining behind the wet hair falling into his face. The thunderstorm was pounding outside and in the darkened room Sherlock looked pitiful and alone, somehow younger than his age. John fumbled in his pocket and drew out his mobile.

"Mycroft," he said when the man answered. "It's Sherlock. He's asking for you."

A pause while Mycroft spoke, and then John turned away from Sherlock, speaking quietly as if to keep the other man from hearing.

"He's been gone for three days," John whispered. "Just came back from what was obviously a drug-induced weekend and seems to be hurt in some..What? I---no, I don't, Mycroft. He's asking for you. He's--"

Sherlock could stand it no longer.

"John, tell him..."

And with that, the detective gasped and turned his eyes down to his thighs, where a stream of urine was quickly darkening his trousers, pulsing down his thighs. He whimpered, one hand squeezing his crotch in a futile attempt at stopping the flow. But it was too late; his eyes closed and cheeks reddened in shame as Sherlock braced himself against the wall and wet his pants. His clothing was dark, but the warm flood pushed through his underwear and into his jeans, and the spread of urine puddling on the floor would be hard to miss. John watched, eyes wide, as Sherlock--holding back his coat to keep it from getting soiled--stood helplessly, peeing in his pants. The urine splattered against the hardwood floor. 

John paused in his discussion with Sherlock's older brother, voice trailing as he heard the trickling and turned to face Sherlock.

"He, uh. Sherlock? Are you..."

Sherlock did nothing but stand with his legs spread as he wet himself, clearly mortified that John was watching. But somehow John understood that this was some sort of tell, some Sherlockian signal from Holmes brother to Holmes brother which would cue Mycroft into what Sherlock was asking for. John could clearly see a lapse in Sherlock's agitated state that he knew had to do with more than the state of the man's bladder. He was calmed; somehow the act of wetting himself had provided him a semblance of respite from the negative thoughts and overriding depression he had clearly felt overtaking his mind. John was confused. Did he really believe the wet warmth spreading through Sherlock's crotch and down his legs had comforted the man, had made him feel safer and calmer than he had before? Even as Sherlock began to cry in his vulnerability--and, when was the last time John had seen Sherlock cry?--the man breathed normally once again. 

John was close enough that Sherlock could now hear his brother on the other end of the phone call. When Mycroft spoke to break the silence John had created, Sherlock tilted his head.

"John? What is it?...Watson? Tell that brother of mine my patience is wearing thin, as it has been with him for the past month. He knows as well as I that his recent behavior--"

"Mycroft," John interrupted, eyes wide, voice distracted. "You should come now. He's just..."

Sherlock blinked back the tears, opening his eyes only once he had finished peeing.

"Tell him," Sherlock whispered, voice soft, almost younger. His eyes were downcast in uncharacteristic submission. "You have to tell him."

"Mycroft," John started again, blushing, but then turned to his downtrodden friend, nearly amazed at what was unfolding before him. “Sherlock, don’t cry, lad. It’s okay.” 

The term of endearment had been uttered before he realized how patronizing it could appear. But it seemed to have the opposite effect on the curly-haired man, who nodded through his pitifully heart-breaking expression, teary-eyed and somehow desperate. It also had the effect of silencing Mycroft, who had been ranting on the other end of the phoneline. John turned back to the phone. "Mycroft? I think you should come now. Sherlock's just...he's just wet his pants."

Sherlock broke into audible tears when he heard John say it out loud. John knew that in the pause of silence on the other end, Mycroft was weighing his options.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Mycroft said at last, and John felt relief, felt grateful that Sherlock had a brother who had always taken care of him, no questions asked. "Don't make him talk if he doesn't want to. And check to see that he hasn't hurt himself."

The phone clicked off and John was left staring at a tense, shivering Sherlock. The man looked pitiful, standing in his wet trousers, cheeks flushed as he cried slow, silent tears every few moments. Without the distraction of the phone call to Mycroft, John felt out of place, unsure of himself.

"Sherlock, I...do you want me to help you out of your wet things?"

Sherlock shook his head, then crossed his arms over his torso, hugging himself.

"Your brother is on his way." John said, speaking softer, somehow picking up on Sherlock's vulnerability at the moment. John may have been daft at solving crimes, but he could read human emotion better than most, and for that he was grateful. "Mycroft told me to make sure you haven't hurt yourself. Are you hurt, bud?"

There it was again, the need to comfort and soothe. John watched as Sherlock hesitated but nodded, holding out his left forearm. He stepped forward and reached out to push the sleeve of Sherlock's coat up to his elbow, and while he forced himself to make no noise, he knew his face must have betrayed his shock. A few bloody cuts littered the underside of Sherlock's arm, obviously self-inflicted.

John moved into damage-control mode, explaining to Sherlock each step of what they were going to do in the same way he might had he met an injured man in Afghanistan during battle.

"Okay, Sherlock," he said. "I want you to step away from the wall so I can take off your coat."

John was almost surprised when Sherlock did as he was told. He removed Sherlock's coat and cast it onto the back of his chair before carefully rolling the man's blood-stained sleeve to his elbow.

"We're going to go sit at the kitchen table so I can fix you up a bit, alright?"

Sherlock allowed himself to be led to a kitchen chair, where, after a hesitation, John told him it was okay to sit down despite his soiled trousers, and then guided his arm to lay atop the table. He told Sherlock to wait there while he went to retrieve the first aid kit from the downstairs loo.

Sherlock remained stoic while John patched him up, barely registering the sting of the disinfectant. 

"Damn," he said, voice causing Sherlock distress. "These are too deep. I'll have to take you to hospital."

Sherlock shook his head emphatically, making a guttural sound of distress in the back of his throat. 

"You," he said. "You."

"Sherlock, I don't have the proper local anesthetics to numb your arm. You need to be stitched up in at least two places."

"Won't feel it," Sherlock said, voice pleading, almost a whine. His right arm reached out to cling to the front of John’s shirt, and the man was crying once more. “I just want you to do it.”

John sighed, running a hand down his face.

"How long ago did you take the drugs, lad?" John asked. Sherlock was acting the way some of John’s youngest patients acted when they were injured. He knew if he didn’t want a complete melt-down, he would need to speak softly and with encouragement.

"One hour and eighteen minutes," Sherlock said, eyes downcast into his wet lap.

“Okay. We’re going to get started now. I won’t leave you.” 

John sighed. Sherlock's drug use would not take away all of the pain from stitches, but he could see there was no way he was getting Sherlock to a hospital in his present state. He got what he needed from the triage medical kit he kept in his bedroom, sterilizing the needle three times.

"Ready?"

Sherlock nodded, and it was concerning to John that the man turned away, not able to watch. Normally, Sherlock was intrigued by medical procedures; every time he experimented on himself he became obsessed with the results to the point that he often pushed himself to dangerous levels.

Sherlock was silent and still, his face whitening from pain while John placed four stitches along one slash and six along another; he knew Sherlock preferred even numbers to odd. 

“Good boy,” John repeated again and again as he worked. “You’re doing very well.”

The only trouble they had aside from the tears Sherlock shed occurred just as John was tying off the last stitch, as the front door opened and heavy footsteps accompanied by the clack of a walking stick--umbrella, in Mycroft's case--were heard on the stairs leading to 221b. Upon the first step, Sherlock tried to jerk his arm away, beginning to stand up, but John held him firmly in place until he could take scissors to the stitch thread. As soon as he was free Sherlock hurried to hide behind the cabinets in the far corner of the kitchen. 

Mycroft appeared just as Sherlock settled into his hiding spot.

"Where is he?" 

For his part, Mycroft looked concerned. It was an almost imperceptible change in the man's general emotional state, but John could see the man was flustered all the same. John had come to learn he would see this side of Mycroft if and only if the man was worried about his little brother. John nodded towards the far side of the kitchen as Mycroft dropped his briefcase to the floor and moved quickly towards his brother.

"He's scared, Mycroft," John said. "I've just stitched up two incisions."

Mycroft paused when he saw his brother crouched to the floor of the kitchen, attempting to hide. He squatted down onto his haunches so he was eye-level with the man.

"Lock, are you okay?"

Sherlock blinked up at his brother, still in tears. 

"John says you've had an accident?"

Leave it to Mycroft to first address the most pragmatic challenge. Then again, Sherlock may very well have been most comforted by Mycroft's choice to address the least irrefutable issue, the issue with the easiest solution.

Sherlock's cheeks bloomed pink, and he shook his head, as if afraid of admitting something so shameful to his older brother. John, on the outskirts of the situation, could see that Sherlock was wavering between remaining himself and slipping into something far less composed, far less calculated.

“Don’t lie to me, William Sherlock Scott. Did you wet your pants?”

Sherlock moaned like a dying animal, and, when he nodded, John saw an even younger version of Sherlock emerge, big-eyed and innocent. “I’m sorry,” he whined, sniffling and rubbing at his eyes with his fists.

"Let’s talk about it once we’re all dry. We need to get you cleaned up, now, buddy. Come with me."

Mycroft held out his hand and Sherlock latched on with both of his own. John watched the Holmes brothers leave the room, Sherlock clutching at Mycroft's coat when he was led into the bathroom, as if he were a young child. It became clear to John that this was not a new arrangement between the brothers. This was reminiscent of their childhood, and perhaps even later on in their lives. He heard the bath water being drawn. 

"Mycroft, you need to keep the stitches out of the water," he said through the closed bathroom door once he had crossed through the hallway. Surprisingly, the bathroom door opened halfway and Mycroft appeared. He could see Sherlock standing behind Mycroft in nothing more than his wet underwear, yellow from his urine. His hands were down near his crotch, as if attempting to hide his accident.

"Mycroft, what is going on?" John could not keep from asking. "I've never seen him...regressed like this, I--"

"Later," Mycroft interrupted, closing the door to a small sliver so John could no longer be distracted by Sherlock and his wet underwear. "I'd like you to go to Sherlock's room. Find him some clean underwear and his pair of blue and red pajamas. They will be tucked in the back of the second drawer as if he has been hiding them. Bring them here."

John sighed, but nodded. "Make sure he keeps those stitches dry," he said.

“I’m not an imbecile, Dr. Watson. If there’s anything I know how to do, it’s care for Sherlock.” 

After Mycroft closed the bathroom door, John retreated into Sherlock's bedroom. It was a mess, books and clothes strewn about, remnants of food left on dirty plates. It was clear whatever was going on with Sherlock had been building for quite some time. John felt a pang of guilt that he had not noticed anything amiss.

It was easy enough to find a pair of clean briefs in Sherlock's top drawer, even if he did have to dig beneath what he could only assume to be a mold experiment of some kind to find them. The pajamas were a bit more difficult. Sherlock generally slept in cotton pajama trousers and nothing else; it was only once John had yanked out the second drawer entirely that he found the aforementioned pajamas, pressed against the back of the bureau. John pulled them from their hiding place. They were blue and red striped cotton pajamas, soft elastic at the wrists and ankles, a trait often seen on children's pajamas.

Mycroft took the pajamas and underwear from John when he knocked, then closed the door once more, leaving John to clean up his medical kit and wait for an explanation.


	2. After Bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting a fitful little Sherlock to sleep, Mycroft sits John down to explain the inner workings of Sherlock's ageplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of self-harm and drug addiction. 
> 
> Thanks so much for the encouragement and kind words! I really appreciate them!
> 
> This chapter contains lots of exposition/explanation in order to set the scene/provide background info. Chapter 3 is not written yet (although later chapters are), but it will see more little Sherlock and caretakers Mycroft and John. Little John will show up a few chapters later! I really just want to get to little John (many of the little John chapters are already written), but let's establish little Sherlock a bit for the sake of plot, shall we?

"It’s been quite some time since it has come to this,” Mycroft said, hand wrapped around the cup of tea resting in front of him on the kitchen table. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows and he smelled of bubble bath and laundry detergent. He looked far more ordinary than John had ever seen him before.

A fitful Sherlock had taken more than half an hour to be put to bed, but the man was finally asleep on the couch beneath an extra blanket and pillows from the bed John had made during the process of tidying Sherlock’s clutter; John had been unable to wait idly while Mycroft bathed Sherlock, and so had taken to cleaning the consulting detective’s disaster of a bedroom. He bundled clothing into the laundry basket and passed it to Mycroft, who listened for Sherlock babbling to himself in the bathtub while he started a load of laundry which included the trousers and boxer briefs Sherlock had wet in earlier. The apartment sounded of running water and books thumping back into their place on bookshelves. John tapped papers into stacks where he rested them on Sherlock’s desk and untacked news clippings and images of the recently solved murder case from the living room walls, knowing the man was in no state to be reminded of the gruesome nature of the serial killer’s plans. 

In Sherlock’s closet, resting atop a suitcase behind the few clothes still hung up on the rack, was a tattered stuffed dinosaur which had at one time more than likely been clean and brightly colored but now resembled something found in a dusty attic box, worn and dingy and missing an eye. John removed the dinosaur from the back of the closet and placed it atop the newly made bed, not fully understanding and yet knowing it was what Sherlock would need when he was led out of the bathtub and put to bed. 

Sherlock had smiled for the first time all night when he saw the plush animal, leaping onto the bed and pulling it into his arms before rubbing his face against the dinosaur’s soft backplates. 

The detective had refused, however, to sleep in his own room. He would not let Mycroft out of his sight; Mycroft compromised by laying his brother down to sleep in the living room couch while he and John sat at the kitchen for a moment of quiet and a cup of tea. Sherlock had sunk into stillness after only a few moments, face burrowed into his dinosaur, and, once he was quiet, Mycroft began from the beginning without John having to ask. 

“He was only nineteen the first time,” Mycroft explained, “struggling to live away from home, to fit in at university where he stood out for his pedantic speeches in class and withdrawn nature in the dorm rooms.

“I received a call one night. It was Sherlock. He’d failed a recent group project because he’d refused to work with the others and turned in his own work individually, and he’d had an argument with his roommate, who’d put in a request with student services to have his room changed, who’d taken to calling Sherlock a freak. He sounded so small on the other end of the line, the way he had as a child, and I drove to university and picked him up in the middle of the night.”

John had not often imagined what Sherlock must have been like at uni, but the amount of challenges such a situation must have posed for Sherlock now seemed nearly insurmountable.

“He looked awful when I saw him," Mycroft continued. "It turned out he hadn’t been eating. Said he couldn’t bear to face the other students in the dining hall. He’d been surviving on chips and chocolate he purchased from the vending machines in the student center. He broke down when he saw me, admitted that he’d…”

Mycroft paused, then sighed, glancing over his shoulder towards the couch and then dropping his voice to a lower volume.

“He’d started wetting the bed again, something we thought he’d outgrown when he was twelve except for his periodic slip-ups here and there."

Mycroft was speaking more openly with John than he perhaps ever had before, and John did not take for granted the trust the man was placing in him by telling him the truth. Mycroft seemed grateful for John's ever-attentive presence. 

"I felt as if I’d failed him," Mycroft admitted. "He’d called me before and I’d been frustrated with him, short. I insisted he continue to stick it out, told him he’d never make it in the world if he dropped out of university. But, when I arrived, it was clear he was in no state to stay, that this was something far more than homesickness. I arranged for him to be unenrolled, and I brought him home.”

“I never knew,” John said, unsure which of the many details he was referring to, but Mycroft only nodded.

“He was quiet when we got to my place, withdrawn. He wouldn’t get out of bed and barely ate. I had to call and take a leave of absence from work because I was afraid to leave him alone. It became clear drugs had been a coping mechanism for him, and he began to show the signs of withdrawal, begged me to let him take them.”

“He’d been addicted at uni?”

“Yes, that’s where the obsession began, I’m afraid.”

“And that’s when this...arrangement began?” John asked, unsure how to begin the conversation of what he had witnessed that night.

“Yes and no. Sherlock regressed as a way to deal with the high levels of stress he had been feeling. Because he was in the midst of withdrawal, he was needier than usual, and he became more childlike, yes. But this younger side of Sherlock is certainly nothing new, and wasn’t at the time either. I allowed us to simply fall back into the routines we had when we were much younger. I’d read of regression therapy and the benefits of ageplay in the past, and encouraged it with Sherlock. He needed to feel taken care of for a time. He needed a break from the stress of taking care of himself, something he quite frankly has never been very good at.”

John nodded again. There was something about this information which made complete sense, something that filled in gaps in his knowledge of Sherlock and answered many questions he had had in the past. That, however, didn't make him any less shocked about the behaviors he had seen that night.

“And the…” John sighed, but he needed to know. 

“Mycroft, Sherlock wet his pants.”

Mycroft smirked, sipping his tea.

“You mean to tell me, Dr. Watson, that you’ve never seen my brother wet himself before? It’s really quite a frequent event, all told.”

John struggled to hide his shock and confusion, then decided he didn’t need to.

“His clothing choices are quite dark for a reason,” Mycroft smirked. “You must have noticed the man can never be bothered to care for himself. He goes days without food or sleep, and he’s always been loathe to use the loo. That’s nothing out of character for Sherlock, even outside of headspace.”

John struggled not to cough on his tea. He tried to think back in his interactions with Sherlock. Sure, there had been times he’d guessed the man needed the loo, times he’d been squirmy or agitated, but John had never paid it much attention. It wasn’t something you tended to think too much about when it came to men of their age.

“Headspace?” John asked, grasping to keep hold of his faculties as each new revelation unfolded and choosing to ignore his own apparent lack of observational skills when it came to Sherlock's bladder.

“That’s the term used to describe the mental state a person enters into when they participate in ageplay, when they regress.”

John nodded, turning to glance towards the living room, where Sherlock lay on the couch. It was impossible to tell whether the man was asleep or not, but John imagined Sherlock more than likely had at least one ear open to their conversation.

“What age does he regress to?” John asked at last.

Mycroft smiled, possibly a bit impressed at the way in which John, albeit shocked and confused, was taking in the information.

“That’s part of the chaos that is taking care of little Sherlock. He’s not generally any set age. He could start a day as eight and be five by dinnertime. He needs the mental stimulation that keeps him from feeling self-conscious about regression. If he’s not stimulated in some external way--going on a trip or solving a new puzzle--he needs a way to distract himself. We've come across a few tactics that keep him aged down, and one of them is that he’ll shift in age to keep himself entertained. I’ve personally seen him sink as young as a needy three year old and then shift to as old as a very petulant pre-teen, around twelve or thirteen.”

“For how long did you keep up this...arrangement?” 

As much as this was making sense to John, there was an awkwardness to talking with Mycroft about his and Sherlock’s private life.

“Back then? Off and on for three months. Over time, it became clear he was in a healthier state both physically and mentally, and he began going for longer stretches out of his younger headspace until one day I woke to find he had left. After that, there were times he would appear after the letdown of a case, needing the comfort of ageplay, our...arrangement, as you call it. But otherwise he was very much improved. I haven’t seen him like this in at least a year and a half.”

“And the cuts on his arms? You seemed to know to ask about them.”

Mycroft sighed, took a long gulp to finish off his tea. “It’s generally part of the pattern,” was all he said. He rose from the table and stretched.

“If it’s alright with you, I’ll stay in Sherlock’s room in case he’s still in headspace when he wakes up. I’m not sure you’re quite prepared for little Sherlock on your own.”

“Mycroft, I’m a doctor,” John said, bringing his cup and saucer as well as Mycroft’s to the kitchen sink. He still had questions and concerns, but he was pleased that their conversation was over for a moment. There was so much information he needed to process. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of needy patients.”

The taller man only hummed haughtily, glancing at John with eyebrows raised. Mycroft opened his mouth to give what John anticipated to be a witty retort, but the man paused, and, without turning around, shifted his attention across the living room. 

“To sleep, Sherlock,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “It’s past bedtime.”

Sure enough, Sherlock emerged from the bundle of blankets on the couch, clutching a comforter around his shoulders and his tattered dinosaur in his arms. It certainly seemed as if the man had been asleep; his face was lined from the couch pillows and his hair was tousled. It was the first time John realized Sherlock’s regression may help the man turn off his mind a bit. 

Instead of speaking, Sherlock's face fell and he began to cry, blubbering where he stood in front of the couch. John’s eyes went wide, and he had to keep himself from moving to comfort his friend.  
Mycroft sighed, but was the one who went to Sherlock. 

Before John could process what he was seeing, Mycroft lifted his younger brother into his arms. Sherlock wrapped his legs around Mycroft’s waist and lay his head on his shoulder. It was an act that they had clearly performed many times before. John was surprised that Mycroft could lift his brother so easily, but he seemed to have little trouble as he crossed the kitchen and took his seat back at the table, this time with a lapful of sniffling Sherlock. 

John could not help but notice how small and vulnerable Sherlock looked in his child-like pajamas. They were too short in the arms and legs for his long-limbed frame, which had the effect of making him look even more like a small child who had recently been through a growth spurt but still had an attachment to his now-too-small favorite pajamas. Mycroft gave his brother a moment to finish the tears, and then gently guided him away from his chest so he could look at his tear-stained face.

“Are you having trouble sleeping, Lock?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock nodded. Sherlock glanced across the table at John and, cheeks pinking, tried to hide his face back in his brother’s chest. But Mycroft prevented him from doing so, holding his shoulders, so Sherlock instead whined and buried his face into his stuffed dino. John was surprised to see Sherlock raise a hand to his face and slip his thumb into his mouth.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. Sherlock reluctantly showed his face once more and removed his thumb from his mouth, wiping his eyes against his forearm. He could not help but glance towards John every few moments; it was clear he was distressed that the man was there.

John smiled across the table to encourage Sherlock. God knows John had seen his fair share of coping mechanisms in the midst of the soldiers he treated in Afghanistan. Although he had never seen ageplay used on the field, he was aware of it as a treatment method for PTSD or anxiety. It was strange to find his best friend engaging in the lifestyle, but he could already imagine just how beneficial this was for the usually surly and overstimulated Sherlock who often felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Tell John and big brother what’s wrong,” Mycroft prompted. 

John was tentative about being included; it was clear Mycroft was attempting to make Sherlock comfortable with John’s presence while he was little, but John had not yet imagined just what role he would play in the relationship between Mycroft and little Sherlock.

Sherlock sniffled. “Thunderstorm,” he whispered, once again ducking his head to hide it in the fur of his stuffed dinosaur.

“Ah, I see,” Mycroft said, before pulling the toy away from Sherlock once and for all. 

He placed the dinosaur on the kitchen table. Sherlock whined, but stopped after a look from Mycroft, who was clearly a stern yet warm caretaker.

John had almost forgotten about the weather in the midst of the night’s chaos. The rain had not let up since Sherlock had burst in dripping from rainwater earlier that evening, and indeed, a flash of lightning lit up the sky as John glanced out the windows across the living room. Sherlock squeaked and hugged Mycroft closely when the thunder struck. John couldn’t help but notice he also plunged a hand down between his legs, not unlike earlier that day, before he had wet himself. 

All told, John was most confused about the statements Mycroft had made about Sherlock’s wetting, the way in which he spoke so nonchalantly about Sherlock’s frequent accidents, the way in which he seemed perplexed that John hadn’t already seen it happen to Sherlock when the man was out of headspace.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who seemed to know the look his brother gave him. With wide eyes, Sherlcok whispered, “loo, please.” Mycroft lifted Sherlock onto his hip once more and carried his brother to the bathroom off the kitchen. 

John realized he had been staring after them only once he found himself alone. There was an intimacy between the two of them, a short-hand which spoke to the many years they had been serving these same roles. But it was intimidating, the ease with which Mycroft cared for his brother; god knows John had been trying in his own way to care for Sherlock since they had moved in together. He had never been as successful as Mycroft was now. 

After a few moments, the two emerged and Mycroft guided Sherlock by the hand to the boy’s bedroom. The thunder was striking more frequently, and, between the booms, John heard Mycroft’s attempts to soothe the boy.  
He was not prepared, however, for Mycroft to call to him from Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Dr. Watson, could you come here, please?” 

John froze. Until this moment he had been little more than an observer to little Sherlock. Now, he was being asked to enter into the arrangement. He must have hesitated long enough for Mycroft to guess his insecurity. The man emerged from Sherlock’s room after John heard him assuring the boy he would return in just a moment. He moved to close the bedroom door, but Sherlock nearly screamed, so he left it propped open and spoke softly when he found John standing in the kitchen, holding Sherlock’s stuffed toy and obviously contemplating whether or not to bring it into the boy.

“You don’t need to be a part of this, John,” Mycroft said. “I can bring him to my place tomorrow morning and keep him with me until he’s well enough to function as an adult again.”

John blinked up at him. A part of him saw how much easier that would be, how John could go on without needing to change his own day to day routine to meet Sherlock’s needs. But there was another part of him that longed to know more about the way Mycroft could care for Sherlock, a part that longed to join in what he knew was exactly what his boyfriend needed.

Mycroft continued: “He’s asked for you. I do think he’d prefer to have you involved. And it does seem to me that he’s needed this for far longer than he’s let on. He and I have an agreement of sorts, that he’ll call me when he needs this, when he’s mentally in a place that is unhealthy. I didn’t help matters this time by persisting in the childish argument we’ve been having for weeks. However, I also think that, since you’ve moved in, he’s been embarrassed to show you this side of him, nervous about letting you in. He’s known you a short time but he cares deeply for you, Dr. Watson. He doesn’t want you to think any less of him.”

“I care very much for him,” John said, and wondered just how much Mycroft knew about the romantic relationship he and Sherlock had settled into. The fact that his boyfriend was now inviting him to---be what? His father? A second older brother?--was more than enough to bring John pause.

“This is not sexual for Sherlock,” Mycroft said, which answered the question in the affirmative of whether Mycroft knew about their relationship. “But I do understand it brings a new layer to your coupling which you may not be prepared to explore at this time. I’ll explain things to him if you feel you’re not able to participate. I can make him understand.”

John shook his head. He was nervous and awkward and had so many questions emerging in his mind. But, more than anything, he wanted Sherlock to be happy. He had been worried sick about him for the past few days while Sherlock was out of contact with him. He needed to be close to Sherlock and to encourage him that he was there for him as much as Sherlock seemed to need regression right now. John was a caretaker by nature, that much was sure, this was just another form of caretaking, after all.

“Brother!” Sherlock called from the bedroom after the most recent sounds of thunder.

John sighed and handed the stuffed dinosaur over to Mycroft. “I’d like both you and Sherlock to stay,” he said. “I’ll just finish the washing up and then I’ll join you in Sherlock’s room.”

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft said.


	3. Morning Tantrums, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft arrives to babysit his brother and finds a frazzled John just about at his wit's end with little Sherlock's misbehaving antics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a huge fan of this chapter, but excited for the beginnings of little John in the next one! No warnings that aren't included in the tags except for a bit of perspective switching that isn't very seamlessly done (apologies!). 
> 
> Thanks so much for the kudos and comments--they keep me wanting to update and write! If there's anything you'd like to see more of, let me know below!

When Mycroft entered 221b Baker Street, it was to the sound of Sherlock’s cries. He settled the grocery bags onto the table in the kitchen, where John was making lunch. Sherlock was collapsed in the kitchen, on the ground in the corner next to the refrigerator. He was throwing a bit of a fit. He turned to look at Mycroft when his brother entered, then screamed louder. Sherlock looked pitiful, his hair mussed and his face a mess of tears as he dissolved into a new rush of crying. John was apathetic to the tears, which Mycroft knew signalled that the man had already had a trying morning with his misbehaving brother. 

“What’s he on about then?” Mycroft asked over the sound of Sherlock’s shrieks.

John glanced over his shoulder and nodded to Mycroft by way of greeting.

“It’s been a rough morning,” John said, nodding to the plastic object resting on the kitchen table. It was a red pacifier with a pirate in a blue hat on the plastic bobble. Always pirates and dinosaurs with Sherlock. 

Mycroft knew the pacifier was Sherlock’s favorite whenever he sunk low enough to accept a pacifier. Most days, Sherlock screamed and shouted that he was a big boy, too old for pacifiers and other items he deemed babyish. It was clear from his tears and distress over his pacifier that Sherlock had sunk down deep today, Mycroft estimated around three and a half to four years of age. 

“He’s chewed through the plastic bulb and now he’s having a bit of a strop because I told him we’d have to throw this one away,” John explained. 

Mycroft sighed. “We bought another of the same, didn’t we?” 

Sherlock kicked and whined in the corner, clearly not liking Mycroft’s train of thought.

John nodded, and was unable to keep a bit of frustration from his voice when he next spoke. “I gave him the new one,” John said, slicing tomatoes for sandwiches. “Exactly the same. But he said it didn’t feel right. Then he threw it across the room, which is why he’s in time out.”

“I see,” Mycroft said, beginning to put the groceries away. 

“He’s also spilled his breakfast on his shirt and hasn’t let me take it off to put it in the wash, which has added another five minutes to his time out.”

Sherlock sniffled and wiped his eyes on his striped long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves of which were pulled down over Sherlock’s hands, which were balled into fists and pressed to his chest. John had purchased the shirt for Sherlock only weeks before, and already Sherlock had dubbed it his pirate shirt. There was always a fight when it became necessary to wash the shirt while Sherlock was still in little space, but Mycroft had always insisted on cleanliness. 

“I guess he’s too naughty to have any of the grape juice I bought for him at the grocery, then,” Mycroft said, voice raised, catching a smirking John’s eye. “And I guess he doesn’t want to solve the new puzzle I brought or play games this afternoon while I’m looking after him.”

Sherlock’s breath caught on a wail, and then his crying lessened in volume, and he turned over his shoulder to watch Mycroft pour juice into a blue and green dinosaur sippy cup. 

Mycroft had rearranged his schedule after receiving a call from John the night before, who was concerned that Sherlock would not be aged up in time to be left alone while John went to his scheduled shift at the surgery. He had spoken to John for a few moments after Sherlock had been put to bed, and although John mentioned that Sherlock, before sinking down into headspace the previous day, had assured the man he would be back to his adult state by Tuesday afternoon, Mycroft agreed with John’s assessment that, based on the behaviors he had been seeing, Sherlock would need a few more days in headspace before he was ready to tackle adulthood again. It was more than likely that Sherlock’s misbehavior that day stemmed from his inability to age up on the timeline he had promised. 

“You know the rules,” Mycroft told Sherlock as he twisted the lid onto the cup and placed it on the edge of the tabletop, where he knew it was in Sherlock’s eyeline. “Timeout only begins when you’re settled and calm like a big boy.”

“I am a big boy,” Sherlock huffed, and Mycroft only hummed noncommittally.

Mycroft placed a box of biscuits in the cabinet and took a seat at the kitchen table, where he opened the newspaper and began to read. He watched Sherlock over the top of the paper as the boy began to calm himself, continuing to hitch on softer cries and little whines until he was doing nothing more than breathing heavily.

“That’s a good boy,” Mycroft said, taking the kitchen timer John held out to him and setting it for five minutes. “Time can start now.”

“Dino?” Sherlock asked, craning his neck towards his brother.

Mycroft opened his paper once more. “Not in time out,” he said. “Boys who are punished for misbehaving do not get toys during their punishment.”

It was one of Mycroft’s old rules, one of the rules he had passed down to John, who was now the main enforcer of the routine of Sherlock’s little life. They had settled into a comfortable arrangement. Sherlock spent most of his time as an adult, but he was a bit more open with John about when he needed little time. 

Still, Sherlock was nothing if he wasn’t stubborn, and more often than not it was John who enforced times for ageplay; otherwise, Sherlock tended to go far too long without the emotional release the practice brought him. He made sure Sherlock had a stretch of little time at least two or three times a month, and Mycroft was often on hand during these times, as extra support. John suspected Mycroft enjoyed the routines as much as Sherlock; John knew first-hand how nice it felt to be needed so completely by another person. 

“I’d be careful with the juice,” John said, setting plates of ham and cheese sandwiches at the table. “We had another accident this morning when someone decided building towers for his dinosaurs was more important than using the toilet.”

Sherlock turned around from his spot with his eyes brimming with tears.

“I’m a big boy! Don’t tell, John,” he whined, beginning to cry once more.

John knew Sherlock was sensitive about wetting himself, especially as it had been happening with frequency over the course of the last few days since they had begun this most recent session of ageplaying. Since learning of the habit from Mycroft, John had begun to notice when Sherlock was too engrossed in an activity or thought process to regulate full control over his bladder. 

Just three days ago, Sherlock he had wet himself at the kitchen table while attempting to determine the chemical compound in a soil sample. John had been preparing dinner, and when he heard the sound of liquid pattering against the linoleum he turned to find a red-faced Sherlock mumbling too quickly for John to decipher as he backed away from the kitchen and retreated to his bedroom. 

Since having heard Mycroft’s revelations about Sherlock’s wettings, John had become more attuned to his boyfriend’s needs, had even attempted to talk with Sherlock about waiting too long. But Sherlock was always guarded, closed off, and this time was no different. He had refused to acknowledge the accident when he returned to the kitchen in a new change of trousers to finish his experiment, refused to acknowledge that John had cleaned the urine from the chair and floor.

“We don’t keep secrets in this household, Sherlock,” John said, a statement his now regressed boyfriend would heed in a way the adult Sherlock never could. Truthfulness and lack of secrecy was an additional rule added by John, one that Mycroft would never have thought to include in the original arrangement between himself and Sherlock.

Sherlock began sniffling once again, clearly upset that Mycroft had learned about his earlier wetting.

“If you’re crying, then I’m stopping the timer, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned, placing his fingers on the dial. Sherlock sucked up the tears and, with a furrowed brow, turned back around towards the wall. Mycroft let the timer remain ticking on the table. 

“About that,” Mycroft said, and he gestured to one more grocery bag on the floor. John peered inside to find a package of disposable bedwetter pants, size xl. John and Mycroft had chatted about what to do regarding Sherlock’s wetting, and it had been John’s idea to try pull-ups. He had noticed Sherlock’s piqued interest in them at the grocery store, Sherlock’s eyes lingering a bit too long over the brightly colored packages. 

The timer rang at the ten minute mark and Sherlock leapt up and ran to wrap his arms around John.

“I’m sorry for throwing and for crying and for wetting and for not letting you wash my shirt, John,” he said in a litany of faults when John refused to comfort Sherlock without the appropriate ending of time out: the apology. Another of Mycroft’s rules. “I’ll be a good boy.”

“I forgive you, Sherlock,” John said, hugging the man to him as he rubbed between his shoulderblades. 

“Sleepy,” Sherlock mumbled, burrowing his head into John’s neck.

“I’m not surprised, given the show of energy you’ve exerted this morning,” John smirked. 

He held the brand new pacifier to Sherlock’s lips, knowing the man needed the comfort, and was relieved when Sherlock accepted it without complaint and then wandered over to lean against his brother. 

Mycroft nudged Sherlock away from him so he could get him out of the dirtied pirate shirt, assuring Sherlock they would have it washed in no time. John was waiting with the clean shirt he had brought out from Sherlock’s bedroom hours ago. He strung it onto Sherlock’s raised arms as soon as Mycroft had whisked off the striped shirt, and between the two men, they had Sherlock clean and clothed. 

Mycroft patted Sherlock’s rear. “Go use the loo and then let’s sit down and have some lunch before John has to go to work and we put you down for a nap, okay, bud?”

Sherlock whined, but the warning glances from both his brother and John had him second guess his decision to throw a fit, and he skulked to the bathroom. It was clear the man was too exhausted to strop once more, and Mycroft felt a bit guilty that he would have a pliant, cooperative version of Sherlock to care for that afternoon after John’s tiring ordeal of a morning.

“My little brother seems to have tired you out, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said when John all but collapsed into the kitchen chair.

“That he has,” John said, running a hand across his face. “And yet, I already can’t wait to come home to the little bugger once my shift is finished.”

Sherlock emerged from the loo with a newfound energy, and he leapt into his place at the table, growling like a dinosaur as he clutched his stuffed toy under his arm. Mycroft and John shared a look of amusement before the three men settled down to tuck into their waiting lunch.


	4. Morning Tantrums, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft discuss what to do about Sherlock's nearly constant state of wet pants while the little detective naps in the other room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update! I know I teased little John in Chapter 4, but I felt a bit more context was needed here in regards to Sherlock's wetting, which John will bring up in later chapters. This chapter is pretty exposition-heavy, so feel free to skip over and come back for more little Sherlock and the beginnings of little John in Chapter 5. Also, a bit of the relationship between Mycroft/Lestrade will show up in Chapter 6 or 7, for those of you patiently waiting for Mystrade!
> 
> Thanks again for kudos/comments/reading!

Mycroft and John had discussed at length what to do about Sherlock’s nearly constant state of wet pants. “He’s always had trouble keeping his pants dry,” Mycroft had said when they first talked. “It was worse when he was a child, but that’s something that never quite changed throughout his life. He’s humiliated by it, ashamed, even, and while I dislike that he feels that way, I believe he is fully aware that the humiliation keeps him young. It distracts his mind from questioning and often settles him deeper into headspace.” 

John could see that, despite the embarrassment, a part of Sherlock enjoyed playing the shame-faced, regressive potty trainer--when he was regressed, his wettings didn’t have to be as much of a catastrophe as when he miscalculated while at home running experiments, or, even worse, out in public. It wasn’t out of the question for young children to have accidents, and although pants wetting would be a bit surprising for the age of child Sherlock most often settled into--around six to eight years of age--accidents were not entirely out of the realm of normalcy. 

But the laundry was piling up and Sherlock, at times, could not keep from wetting on the furniture, some of which was quite difficult to clean. It was John who had suggested training pants. He had noticed Sherlock’s piqued interest one afternoon when they were watching telly and an advertisement for pull-ups appeared on the screen. John thought they might be just enough to feed Sherlock’s desire for humiliation which would keep him locked into headspace when he needed the help while still saving them from too many clean-up jobs. They knew toddler training pull-ups would be too small for Sherlock. The bedwetter pants were a good compromise; a big-kid version of training pants that would just fit Sherlock’s skinny hips.

“They’ll likely leak,” Mycroft said softly once lunch had been eaten and Sherlock had been put down for his nap, “But with an extra insert they just might do the trick. In any case they’ll give him enough to experiment with to keep him in headspace for more time than he might otherwise be likely to, while also cutting down on laundry.”

John nodded. He knew Sherlock needed a long expanse of time in headspace; he had been particularly on-edge and stressed lately, and if the pull-ups would keep him young longer while reducing the risk of Mrs. Hudson asking questions about their increase in laundry, he was all for it. It would just be a question of introducing the topic to Sherlock.


	5. Bigger than You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock, in a fit of anger, accuses John of being littler than him, the doctor should simply laugh off the comment and move on. But Mycroft can't help but notice the way in which the man is affected by Sherlock's statement, so much so that Mycroft wonders if John isn't harboring a desire to be little himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the as-promised beginning of little John and first appearance of Lestrade. A bit of wetting (as always) and general Sherlock brattiness are thrown in for good measure!
> 
> Thanks as always for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! The next few chapters after this one are some of my favorite that I've written so far--looking forward to posting them in the next day or so!

“I thought you were a big boy, Sherlock,” Mycroft said from his place in the kitchen where he had been folding the laundry. He was frustrated with his younger brother’s antics that day. They had already had to deal with two time outs--one for refusing to brush his teeth and another for throwing food he didn't want to eat--and Sherlock had been fussy and needy the entire morning. Mycroft stood with his hands on his hips and sighed as he took in the state of Sherlock’s wet pajama pants and the puddle on the carpet in the middle of a scattering of Legos.

Sherlock stood to stomp his foot, which only had the effect of emphasizing his littleness, as he stomped his bare foot directly onto the puddle of urine he had just peed onto the carpet while playing.

“I am a big boy!” Sherlock nearly shouted, angry at the insinuation that he had acted babyish.

Mycroft caught John’s eye from where the doctor sat updating his blog across the living room.

“It certainly doesn't appear that way from the state of your trousers,” John could not help but tease. Mycroft knew John had been dealing with a misbehaving Sherlock all night. The man had refused to settle down to sleep, had whined and cried when John tried to leave him, and had poked John awake, laughing and taking off running around the flat, whenever John had happened to fall asleep himself. 

Sherlock became angrier at John’s taunt, and his voice was desperate and vicious when he next spoke.

“I’m bigger than you are!” He yelled across to John.

And while the insult should have done nothing but make John and Mycroft laugh, there was a tense pause which came over the room, a moment where something said aloud for the first time suddenly caused a new train of thought. John, for his part, attempted to laugh but only succeeded in clearing his throat. He turned back to his computer after Mycroft caught his eye once more. He thought he could even see the doctor's cheeks pinking. Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who only shrugged. 

The detective had been caught somewhere between childlike troublemaking and adult deducing, and it seemed no one could quite determine on which side to let the statement land. Mycroft took stock in the fact that John had not denied the statement, wondered just what the man felt about ageplay in regards to himself. Perhaps he and Sherlock had been discussing new developments to the relationship? Was it possible John wanted to participate in ageplay in a capacity other than as Sherlock’s caretaker?

“Come on, Sherlock,” Mycroft said after they had stood in silence for far longer than was comfortable. Sherlock, fully regressed once more, had begun plucking the wet fabric at his crotch. “Let’s get you cleaned up and into some training pants.”

Mycroft, wanting to take the attention away from a now clearly anxious John, had made the statement purposefully, knowing it would set Sherlock off into screams of protest. They had spoken with Sherlock about the bedwetter pants they had begun using as pull-up diapers for a few weeks now, and the man had agreed to their use out of practicality and for their ability to keep him young. They made him wear one any time of the day when he miscalculated and wet himself, and Mycroft suspected his brother rather liked them. Although Sherlock did have genuine bladder control issues after years of not paying attention to his bodily needs and overestimating his ability to hold it, Mycroft knew there had been a time or two recently where Sherlock had wet himself purposefully in order to be put into a pull-up. Sherlock rarely asked for affection, and being changed into a pull-up after wetting allowed him to feel shamed yet cared for, Sherlock's perfect combination, Mycroft knew. That didn't mean, however, that he didn't rail against them while in headspace. Little Sherlock had never been fond of being made to feel babyish, and had always been fond of throwing tantrums.

“I’m not a baby!” Sherlock yelled. “I don't want a pull-up. I'm a big boy and I hate you!”

Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s tantrum. He’d successfully pulled the focus away from a frazzled John, who for his part seemed to be far away in thought, not paying any mind to the stomping, growling Sherlock darting about the room. Mycroft would need to watch John’s mannerisms and temperament to gain more information. Was it possible Sherlock was onto something? Would Mycroft be looking after a younger version of the doctor sometime soon? He had to admit he was rather intrigued by the idea. 

“This way, brother mine,” Mycroft said, walking into Sherlock’s bedroom. He had found it far easier to let the boy come to him instead of chasing and catching and dragging. Sherlock was, after all, desperate for attention.

\---- 

Later that night, after leaving Sherlock in a still somewhat embarrassed John’s care, Mycroft came home to Greg Lestrade at his apartment, cooking him dinner. He had given Greg keys to his place only two months before, after a prolonged two years of what Mycroft still stubbornly refused to call a relationship. It was still a bit unsettling for him to find Greg in what has always been his private space. 

Still, he found he rather enjoyed the man’s company, and Greg was always extremely forgiving when it came to Mycroft’s rather long list of quirks.

“How’s your little troublemaker?” Greg asked, setting down two plates of roasted chicken and green beans at the kitchen table. Greg had been trying to get Mycroft, who had survived for his years as a single man on takeaway and sandwiches, to eat a bit healthier.

“He’ll be aged up by tomorrow, I assume,” Mycroft said. “Seems to be vacillating between selves at the moment.”

It had been Sherlock himself who had let Greg in on the brothers’ secret, albeit unintentionally, roughly three weeks after John had learned of the arrangement. Sherlock had called Mycroft’s home phone while in headspace, and Greg had answered. Luckily, the Detective Inspector had taken it in stride. 

“Makes sense, actually,” he’d shrugged, taking in the information with far less confusion and concern than John had previously. Mycroft had had a far harder time calming Sherlock down once his brother learned he had been found out by Lestrade than he had explaining the pieces of the lifestyle to Greg. 

Sherlock had been sullen around Mycroft for weeks, blaming him for the slip up, but Mycroft had refused to humor his brother’s anger. Instead, he simply called Greg to visit the next time Sherlock was spending the night at Mycroft’s. John, having given his okay to the plan only reluctantly, worried the man may be shocked out of headspace, but Mycroft had assured him the embarrassment would have the opposite effect on Sherlock, that Sherlock coming face to face with Greg would actually push Sherlock deeper down in age. Mycroft had been correct, and the night had ended with Greg putting a giggling Sherlock to bed. How Greg could keep Sherlock consistently giggling Mycroft would never fully understand, but the bond between the two had been solidified with Greg's dinosaur growls and pirate impressions, and Lestrade from that point forward had become, much to Mycroft’s bemusement and adult Sherlock's distress, Uncle Greg. 

“Eat up,” Greg said with a wink and a squeeze to his shoulder as he set a glass of bourbon before Mycroft and took his seat at the table across from him. He began eating from his own plate of food. “It’s too bad he’ll be aging up soon. I was going to stop by tomorrow for some antics before I head into the station.”

“What do you think of John in all of this?” Mycroft asked. His mind had been on the doctor all day. He had watched John as closely as he dared throughout the afternoon and early evening, and the man had clearly withdrawn into himself after Sherlock’s attempted joke.

“John?” Greg asked, shrugging. “I think he’s a great caretaker for Sherlock. That's what I think.”

“But do you think that’s all there is to it?” Mycroft asked, swallowing a mouthful of bourbon.

Greg seemed taken aback. “If you think that man is in this for some ulterior motive, Mycroft, I have to say I think that’s a bit far-fetched. No one would put up with as much from Sherlock Holmes as that man does unless there was affection there.”

“I’m not doubting John’s motives, Greg,” Mycroft said, attempting to keep the sarcasm from his voice because he knew Greg disliked the tones he often took. “I’m just wondering if John may have more than just caretaking on his mind.”

Greg paused to think over Mycroft’s statement for a moment while he chewed a large bite of chicken. It sometimes took him a moment to get on the same page as the man, but he had learned over the years the signs which helped him follow Mycroft's trains of thought. “You mean you think John’s a switch?”

Mycroft could not help but smirk. Greg had done the reading on ageplay that Mycroft had given to him, and it was always endearing when the man used technicality from the literature. In regards to ageplay, Mycroft had always known he was fully caretaker and Sherlock was fully little. But it might just be that John felt pulled in both directions, that he may enjoy switching between the two roles, even that he was currently serving in a role that was not his preferred. 

Mycroft began to eat at Greg’s insistence that his food was getting cold, but, while they ate, he explained to Greg the way in which Sherlock, in what appeared to be a moment of his adult mindset encroaching upon his youthfulness that day, had suggested that John may be little himself.

“There’s something to this, Greg,” Mycroft explained. 

Greg had finished his meal by the time Mycroft had ceased listing instances of John’s affected temperament.

“I’d say we might just have another little on our hands,” Greg smiled. “If you’re ready to take on that additional responsibility, you should talk to him, Myc. John’s clearly a man who’s seen his fair share of pain. A little comfort might go a long way towards alleviating some hardship.”

Mycroft took the dishes to the sink; they had agreed long ago that Greg would do the cooking and Mycroft the cleaning up. But Greg was too much of a softy to let Mycroft clean the dishes by himself, so he was soon by his side with a dishtowel, waiting to dry each cup and plate and fork and knife.

“I’ll make sure he knows I’m available to him,” Mycroft said after they had finished the dishes in silence. 

They had retired to the living room for the evening, bourbon glasses in hand.

“You’re a good man, Mycroft Holmes,” Greg said, and he leaned in for a kiss.


	6. Update

Hi All--just a quick update to let you all know that I've re-worked this story into a series. So, if you were subscribed to this particular story (which I've changed the title to) and want to keep receiving updates, subscribe to the series "Little Brothers Mine." 

Three new little John chapters are up under the story "A Trip to the Zoo," which should now be linked to the "Little Brothers Mine" series. Let me know if you have trouble finding it!

Hopefully this isn't too inconvenient for everyone--I figured this would actually help to keep things more organized moving forward!


End file.
